No one forced his heart to believe
the blue curve of oceans
the clouds that whitewashed the heavens.
His mouth spicy with poems –
on Isla Negra
he preferred the company of salty trees
and old ships’ anchors.
The woman he loved like a living guitar
slim mysterious and dreaming
she wore the silver that he mined from the moon.
Thinking of Pablo Neruda
I go out walking
a sailor’s song upon my tongue
my arm around a ghost
© Bob Orr